


he aims his pistol at the sky--

by zetasocieties



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canonical Character Death, musings during 'The World Was Wide Enough' just because I can
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-26 10:38:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5001523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zetasocieties/pseuds/zetasocieties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Death comes in ten parts.)</p><p>number one.</p><p>They arrive second, Hamilton and a doctor and his second, figures in the mist, and somehow the shadows and the cold make it easier, that he's entertained and is still entertaining an intention to kill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he aims his pistol at the sky--

(Death comes in ten parts.)

**number one.**

They arrive second, Hamilton and a doctor and his second, figures in the mist, and somehow the shadows and the cold make it easier, that he's entertained and is still entertaining an intention to kill.  He's wearing his glasses that morning, and it doesn't strike him as odd-- Feels perfectly natural, in fact, an instinct not born of conscious thought.  No conscious leaning towards murder.  Just a feeling, that it was the right thing to do (that he might need the sharpened sight) and a reassurance that he was that little bit safer for having done so.  He knows he could kill Burr.  He hasn't decided to, but he could.  Of course, he hasn't decided  _not_ to, either.  So much of Alexander feels like a reaction, impossible to take _any_ action, make a decision, only to follow motions until the decision is made for him and then one of them will be dead, or neither will.

**number two.**

Burr is already there, and as they get closer Alexander can see he's squinting slightly in the fog.  His only feeling is a vague sort of relief that he did pick up his glasses after all.  Without them, he knows he would be just as hard-pressed to make out his surroundings.  It's hard enough now, swirling grey and a strange light-headedness.  Strangely, he feels as if he's seeing very clearly, possibly the clearest he's ever seen in his life.  Well, doesn't it matter more now?  Does it matter?  Who will care, fifty years down the line?  He doesn't even know how much it matters to him.  Too much of Alexander Hamilton is still in the room with the drowsing Eliza, where he picks up a pen and writes and writes and writes, as he steps from the boat and takes a breath of too-cold air.

**number three.**

He makes a customary show of looking about him, finding the best ground, scanning the space, even though there isn't much to see, not on the bluest and brightest of days, and not today.

**number four.**

There is no time to waste and no point in trying to waste it.  He takes up his position, finding balance on the ground where he'll die, or become guilty of murder, but it just feels like dew-wet grass under his feet.  The doctor knows his cue, and turns and walks, almost disappearing in the surrounding mist, his back to the scene.  If he doesn't see it, he wasn't there -- but he is close enough to hear a cry for help.  Far enough away that if a man bleeds out and dies, he wasn't there.  Even if he heard a cry for help. 

**five.**

(Philip was fading by the time he arrived, and God knows the doctor had tried, it wasn't enough. What would be enough? Alexander's hand is steady: his son was brave enough to aim for the sky.)

**number six.**

The thought of Philip brings him back to the pistol in his hand, and the hair-trigger mechanism that is not guaranteed to save his life, but would at the very least steady his aim.   _I am not throwing away my shot._ His own voice rings in his head, just a quarter of an hour before, a reassurance at Nathaniel's questioning that he wasn't going to use it -- but it would be easy.  The less pressure on the trigger, the straighter his aim, the better his chance to come out unscathed.  He isn't going to use it, but --  _not throwing away my shot, not throwing away_ \-- he feels better for the knowledge that he could, and why  _did_ he pick up that particular pistol if he had no intention to use it to its fullest?  

Philip was brave enough to shoot at the sky (and to die), but bravery is more than one thing.  

Laurens, duelling because Hamilton could not, had had the nerve to shoot (got Charles Lee in the side, nobody _died_ ).  

**number seven.**

Make your confession.  He thinks,  _Eliza_ , and then looks around and thinks,  _Philip._ Even a proud man can admit he's made mistakes, but he's  _done_ that, the time for confession is past.    The time to live or die is now.  His eyes flit to his opponent and wonders if he's supposed to confess to this, too.  To shoot or to miss, to injure, to kill... Undecided, and yet, is it wrong that he's considered it?  All of Alexander feels sharp, like he  _could_ , all he has to do is decide, yes or no.  He wonders if Burr knows.  Did one of them come here to kill?  Did either of them?  Never close, they had once considered each other friends, and now enemies, a thorn in the side either would be well rid of -- but is this how?  What's in an action?

**number eight.**

Their seconds stand to the side, and wait.  Wait for a signal, to step in and make peace or else fire in place of their friends.  But neither is required.  They stand by, and turn away (deniability, you weren't there, you didn't see), and both of them are in position.  It's now or never, he realises, to make a decision.  For all Alexander knows, Burr means to kill him.  For all either of them know, Alexander means to do the same.  He gave it some thought, he'll admit, but had he decided, before even wanting to admit that he'd decided?  Putting on his glasses, he had deliberately not considered the reason why, only that he  _might..._ And for all the reassurance he has no intention to use the hair-trigger, now the time has almost come, he's very glad to have the option there.  

**number nine.**

_Summon all the courage you require --_ he takes aim, can feel his arm shaking slightly, but his grip is steady.  It ends here.  

 **number** **ten.**

(Paces!  Fire!)

A split-second decision stretches into infinity, and something changes.  The world is greyed with mist, and America seems to come to life around him, waking up as one, mind exploding with colour even as the city, the country, the world slumbers in the mist.  Sepia-toned colours somehow no less vibrant, a world that had built  _Alexander Hamilton_ as much as he had built it up, filled with friends whose faces are now memories and time that is too much, that is never enough.  He was going do _so much_ , and the weight of it hits him in the chest, it's now or never, he could still do so much, would have done so much, and  _not throwing away my shot, not throwing away my-- if I throw away my shot, I am not_ and does he dream the desperation of the soon-to-die or does he really hear Laurens' voice on a ghost of wind, feel Washington's eyes on him like  _history has its eyes on_ Philip, now, waiting, perhaps forgiving, perhaps condemning, from his mother's side and he feels so much more dead than alive, has been that way for a while, maybe, and belongs with them so much  _more_ but running out of time, always running out of time, no more time to say goodbye and  _Eliza---_

(is too alive, it's in every part of her, breathing and heartbroken and soft and weary, the strength to endure a lifetime, he never wants to see her fade into a crowd of faces past and  _passed_ , does not want to leave her but he is already, oh, much more dead than living, and he's made his choice, almost unaware now that it ever was a choice) _  
_

\--  _I'll see you on the other side._

_\-- raise a glass to freedom._

A soldier's chorus rings loud and true on the other side.

**Author's Note:**

> I admit to taking historical liberties with this, mainly that (at least from my understanding) there is pretty solid evidence Hamilton was never planning to shoot Burr in the first place, but instead to narrowly miss him. I actually agree with this argument, but I needed the ambiguity for this fic to work and what the hell, it's musical-based to start with, and who's to say what Lin-Manuel's Hamilton was intending to do? For anyone who takes their historical accuracy a lot more seriously than me (at least in this case -- I've been known to shout at _The Musketeers_ more than once), you have my apologies but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless!


End file.
